I always thought there was this rebels

party going on somewhere, and I just had

to make it there. And I would never have to stop

rebelling against normalcy then.  A party like

the torch that’s burned before and will

out burn us all, still and yet to come.

Decades long. People born there and people died.

Fuck. I had this thing all planned out. And now no

matter how South I go I know not even I can

Burn the Man of time forever.

I used to think the divinity of a Doors record was

The same thing as a Beethoven one.

Now they’ve all become catalogued,

my fingers in analog

have spoken out the order,

of history in quarters.

An alignment of stars, called critics’ whose bars

imprison their words except to

bang the same damned pot all day.

Critical poker face. I want to cut out your place

at the table, like Stanley Kowalski,

but I just don’t have the biceps the time

or apparently the timing.

So here’s an alternative guide to rhyming;

don’t leave the kids table unless you’ve

given, taken or witnessed a good shining.

This is a house of lies though.

Barely a dancer in this generation.

Let alone an infinite dance.

Best to work on the two step.